Behind our quarters, just a few feet diagonally across the boundary wall, stood the brick platform called the 'mandap' where the idols sat. A framework of bamboos was built around it which was then covered with thick tarpaulin cloth on all three sides and the top which altogether constituted the 'pandal'. The inside was decorated with the trendy furnishings and lights. A huge gate was built with the entrance door offering the least view of the idol from outside - compelling one to push through the crowd inside in order to get a peek of the gods/ goddesses.
The day when the bamboos were dropped alongside the 'mandap' on the day of the 'Mahalaya', our hearts leapt with joy. But long before the advent of the festival, the residents of the colony were tortured with the demands for donations. The ones who refused to oblige had to bear the brunt of these young club members. Their houses would be pelted with stones at wee hours and rushing outside would only yield sounds of running feet and titters round the corner with not a single living soul to be seen.
Our quarter had a guava tree popular for its taste of guavas even outside our colony. My father made it a point to personally deliver a bagful of the first fruit of the season to every household of our colony. Two bags laden with guavas would be kept ready for distribution in my school. But even then the club members sitting and idling on the 'mandap' would lose no chance in sneaking up to our backdoor, climb on to the boundary wall from the septic tank slab and crawl on to the branches of the tree. Satisfied having picked up handfuls and tucked inside their shirts - by tying knots, into pants' pockets and everywhere that would hold them they would jump off the wall, declaring gleefully, 'Kakima, peyara parlam koyekta'. After they had left we'd discover the tree to be wiped out of all its fruits with the leaves and branches silently bearing the testimony of the raid.
The Banerjees' lived opposite to our quarters' row, to the left. Banerjee Uncle was entrusted with the job of supervising the Durga Puja. Even though four 'purohits' were hired for the worship yet their sole involvement was not enough to manage the four day long rituals and therein the need of more helping hands. Banerjee Uncle, being a brahmin himself took the responsibility of bathing the 'kolabou' on the day of 'Shasthi', also known to be the day of 'bodhon' - when the goddess is invoked into the earth from her heavenly abode in mountain Kailash.
Clad in a dhoti and a shawl typical of the hindu priest, with hymns written on it ; Banerjee Uncle would sport the kolabou- a less-grown banana plant draped in a white saree with red border, resembling a bengali bride - believed to be the wife of Lord Ganesha; on his shoulders and march ahead like the captain of a march-past team - carrying the flag with elan, amidst the sound of drums and conch shells, with two 'dhaakis' and conch-shell blowers following him.
Though the act was a result of a necessary ritual to be performed before the worship could be commenced, yet at a young age as ours, it evoked a feeling of amusement. I remember him to be very courteous and helpful by nature. Being a brahmin, Banerjee Uncle many a times did the job of a good samaritan during the Saraswati and Lakshmi Pujas, by taking the responsibility of the purohit himself - when all the families of the colony would fail to get hold of a professional priest owing to the high demand; and thus saving our household worships.
Anyone visiting our colony from neighbouring states/ extreme parts of the country might have their brows raised seeing people standing alongside the road, scattered; with their sulking faces - depicting people whose natures' calls had not been attended well that morning.
The festival would pass out merry-making with friends and families for the three consecutive days of Saptami, Ashtami and Navami. The biggest congregation would occur during the Ashtami and Navami and volunteers would have a tough time holding the mob by throwing down a line of rope and shouting at the top of their voices over microphones to move ahead and make way for other viewers. Come Navami and the mind would get melancholic - for the next day Dashami, the idols would be immersed.
A special attraction of our community Puja was the 'Orchestra' which used to be held generally on Ekadashi, the day next of Dashami. All the budding talents of the colony into singing and recitation waited eagerly for the event. Some of them were really very talented, though it was hard to carve a niche for oneself in the music industry those days. These people, particularly the womenfolk had restrictions in performing in places other than their own colony, late night.
The boundary wall of our quarters provided the rear view of the pandal. Moreover there was strict instructions from my father that we could not stay in the pandal after ten - literally leaving us with no other opportunity other than watching the function from the wall top. There were obviously reasons for my father's strict governance - for right after the stroke of ten, the innocent looking makeshift auditorium attained the look of a party gathering.
The young club members - few of them having crossed the Class ten borders after several attempts - so as to enable them to earn their pocket money giving tuitions, clad in trendy attires would shake their bodies to the latest beats of orchestra. It goes without saying that these guys were inebriated - shouting in approval for the performances they liked and making cat calls at those they didn't; passing lewd remarks to the female performers of the band. The few girls who stayed put and seemed to either enjoy or neglect them were the girl friends of those loafers - whom the elders, annoyed by their inability to sleep from the noise, would describe as 'Bape khedano, maye tarano'.. meaning ones who were despised and thrown out of their homes by their parents. These guys also earned the ill reputation of stealing puja donations' money and getting their shirts and pants tailored; though the legitimacy of such allegations could never be challenged and the community was left with no other option than accept the debits and credits of previous year's accounts furnished in the donations' bills, in good faith.
In those times our colony flooded with the fakes of bollywood stars. While some would keep long hairs covering half of the ears with the parting in the centre - emulating an Amitabh Bachchan; there would be Mithun Chakrabortys as well with whiskers shaved off. Guys would roam the lanes of our colony sporting their latest hero hondas, with the likes of Govinda, Sunny Deol and other stars - wearing ear-rings, black glasses and girls would ride pillion behind them like pet cats. The young puja committee members ran the affairs of the puja while attending to their personal love affairs as well, with the dexterity of efficient multi-taskers.
The 'Orchestra' was held late night after the colony participants' programme came to an end. A hindi song followed by a bengali number would be met with loud applause from the audience. After sometime requests for songs would start getting poured in from the audience . This was usually after 12:00 PM when save a few male spectators, only the puja committee members stayed back. These guys apart from the club members belonged to neighbouring colonies where the pujas were not held.
From the boundary wall top of our quarters, in light and shade the experience of watching orchestra was naturally spectacular. The sound of 'chakar-chakar' beats from a particular instrument enhanced the tempo of the songs while hiding the unmelodious parts very cleverly. After each number, the coordinator of the band held the donation notes made by the public in his hand and would announce the names of the persons. The value of donations were meagre but the man's eyes would shine with happiness, which was clearly visible from our position on the wall. Such little endeavors would inspire the band to give more better performance in their next numbers.
Once while passing down the main street of our colony, a familiar tune of a hit bollywood number caused me to stop at the labour quarters. As I walked up to an open window, a rehearsal by the same orchestra band, which had performed in our colony's pujas, greeted me. The people were clad in lungis and vests now, unlike the gleaming dresses they wore on stage. I found the coordinator also present amongst the men wearing a grave face.
I had later learnt that these orchestra bands charged very less for their performances - keeping up with the tough competition from other bands. The men and women who performed in these bands for days and nights came from economically backward families living in remote areas of Kharagpur, which thrived solely on their meagre incomes. Many of the performers were talented but could not take higher education in music owing to financial problems. All they got to learn from was by watching TV and listening to radio and music cassettes.
Today children are getting to perform in TV channels at an young age and their singing is being heard across the globe. They are groomed by for better performance and professional excellence, for playbacks in movie industry. Money and respect follows suit. Some are even bringing out their personal albums. A little looking back at those lost stars of music makes one feel sorry for them. How many talented voices got silenced due to lack of opportunities.
In today's age of reality shows and live concerts, the orchestra may have become backdated - an event of the dinosaur era; but it goes without saying that on the night of bengali's biggest festival, under the open sky, our young minds wetted by the fresh dew drops of the of impending winter; literally danced hearing our favourite numbers being crooned on stage. Along with it the deep, profound voice of the coordinator announcing through the echo microphone 'Behenon aur bhaiyon.. Ab ap ke samne a rahe hain..' still send shivers to my spines after all these years.
